The Killings at Badger's Drift

Chapter One

As the car sped along through the pallid genteel streets and out into the Sussex countryside Barnaby reviewed what, in spite of the number of deaths, he would always think of as the Simpson case. He had arrived at a solution which he knew must be the true one and the puzzle was complete but for one small segment. He recalled the scene in question. He remembered it so vividly, almost word for word. The trouble with this small segment was that it made nonsense of his conclusions. Yet he could not ignore the scene or pretend that it had never happened. Somehow or other it must be made to fit.

Troy eased up a little as they re-entered Tunbridge Wells. The man really drove very well, thought Barnaby. For all his occasional reprimands about his sergeant’s dashing over-exuberant style Barnaby acknowledged Troy’s skill and road sense. Watching now, noting how frequently he checked the road behind; mirror to road, road to mirror, mirror to -

‘But that’s it!’

‘Sir?’ Troy’s eyes slid, for a fraction of a second, over to his chief. Barnaby did not reply. Troy, whose Chinese breathing and circumvolutions had got him absolutely nowhere, did not pursue the matter. He was determined not to give the old devil the satisfaction of responding with wide-eyed and eager questions. No doubt all would be revealed when he judged the time to be right. Till then, thought Troy, his brilliant deductions could stew in their own juice. ‘Straight to Causton is it?’

‘No,’ replied Barnaby. ‘I’ve been up since half-past five and I’m starving. We’ll stop off at Reading for some lunch. There’s no hurry now.’

He remembered those words afterwards and for a very long time to come. But he had no way of knowing that, in the town they had so recently left behind, an old lady was lifting a telephone and, with tears streaming down her face, dialling a number at Badger’s Drift.

The marquee was the size of a barrage balloon. It billowed and flapped whilst half a dozen men struggled with pegs and hammers to tether it down. Two dozen crates of champagne and twelve trestle tables stood nearby together with a tottery mountain of interlocking bentwood chairs. Under the canvas the exquisitely nurtured aristocratic green, trampled by heavy boots, was already giving off that enclosed warm smell redolent of a thousand refreshment tents - a scent of tea urns and sweet hay and freshly cut bread.

As Barnaby walked down the terrace steps for the last time he saw Henry Trace wheeling himself between florists and caterers; nodding, smiling, pointing, getting in the way. Even from a distance of several feet his happiness was tangible. Barnaby looked around for Katherine Lacey.

‘Why, Chief Inspector.’ Henry propelled himself skilfully across the flagstones. ‘How nice. Have you come to wish us joy?’ His smile faded as he saw the policeman’s face. He stopped his chair some little distance away as if this gap might somehow mitigate whatever tidings Barnaby had brought.

‘I’m very sorry, Mr Trace, but I have some bad news.’

‘Is it about Phyllis? I already know ... they rang up. I’m afraid it looks a bit insensitive going ahead here but everything was so advanced’ - he gestured across the lawn - ‘that I decided ...’ His voice ran down. There was a long pause whilst he stared at the two men, dread gathering in his eyes.

Barnaby spoke for a few moments, gently, knowing there was no way to make the cruel words merciful. Troy, who had always hoped that one day he would be in a position to see a member of the upper crust getting their comeuppance, found himself looking away from the shrunken figure in the wheelchair.

‘Can you give me any idea of Miss Lacey’s whereabouts?’ Barnaby waited, repeated his question and waited again. He was about to ask it a third time when Henry Trace said, ‘She’s gone over to the cottage ...’ His voice was unrecognizable. ‘Someone rang up ...’

‘What! Did she say who it was?’

‘No. I took the call ... it was a woman ... in some distress I think. She sounded very old.’

‘Jesus!’ Even as he spoke Barnaby started to move. Troy ran alongside. ‘Leave the car ... quicker through the spinney.’

They cut through the garden of Tranquillada, past the startled constable, and crashed through the hedge to the spinney. Barnaby tore at the hazels and forced his way through into the woods. He ran like the wind, kicking sticks and everything else out of his way savagely. Troy heard him mutter, ‘Bloody fool ... bloody bloody fool.’ And, not knowing who or what Barnaby meant, felt himself caught up in the slipstream of urgency engendered by the other man’s flight.

Back on the terrace Henry Trace slumped in the chair. The bustling continued around him unabated. Boxes of champagne flutes went by and a hamper of napery. A pretty girl in a pink overall was wiring white carnations into an arch over the door. She was singing. Henry closed his eyes and braced himself for another wave of pain. It came in quietly but in no time was tearing at him with vicious ferocity.

‘Excuse me, sir ... ?’ Pause. ‘Sir?’

‘Yes?’

‘I’m just going to do the gypsophila. I thought it’d look rather pretty wound through the balustrades then sort of tumbling down the steps ... ?’

He looked at her, then across at the marquee which was now gaily decorated with bunting. People were hurrying about, calling to each other. The mountain of chairs was being dismantled and carried into the tent. He must do something to stop the momentum. Even as he prayed there was some mistake he knew there was no mistake. Everything Barnaby had told him fitted. Everything must be true. But what could he say to the girl? He looked at her kind smiling face.

‘Yes,’ he said, turning his chair to go indoors, ‘tumbling down the steps will be fine.’

Chapter Two

‘Take the kitchen,’ cried Barnaby, ‘I’ll check upstairs.’

All three bedrooms were empty and looked just as they had before: the little single bed still straining pristinely for effect, the double a tangled mess. Barnaby checked the wardrobe and was just opening a large trunk on the landing when he heard Troy cry out. He flew down the stairs and found his sergeant standing in the studio in front of the easel. He looked completely stupefied.

‘But ...’ he gaped at Barnaby. ‘Who is it?’

Barnaby glanced at the canvas. Resting on the rim of the easel was an envelope addressed ‘To Whom It May Concern’. He snatched it up and walked quickly out of the room. Troy, his face the colour of a boiled lobster, followed.

In the hallway Barnaby tore open the envelope, glancing rapidly over the pages. Then he hurried into the kitchen. Something which looked very like parsley was strewn all over the table. And there was a musty smell in the air. Like mice.

Troy stood watching his chief uncertainly. The man looked poleaxed. He sat down and shook his head from side to side as if to escape tormenting thoughts or an insect stinging. Then he got up and looked round him in a dazed manner. He stuffed the letter into his pocket and hurried from the room. He said nothing to his companion. Indeed Troy felt that Barnaby had forgotten he was there at all. Nevertheless he followed the other man as he hurried round the side of the house and immediately plunged deep into the woods. Troy, uncomfortably aware of the effect the painting had had on him, stumbled behind.

Barnaby twisted and turned, back-tracked and turned again. Too late, too late was all he could think as he wheeled round and round in circles while the unforgiving seconds ran through his fingers like silver sand. Images in his mind: a television screen with a square inset ticking off fractions of a second almost faster than the eye could see; banked computers and a nasal voice counting ‘Five. Four. Three. Two. One. Zero.’ An hour glass, the last grains tumbling through. And, over and above everything, himself and Troy relaxing in the Copper Kettle. A starter, a main course. Cheese and biscuits as well as a pudding. Coffee. And a refill, sir? Why not? There’s no hurry. All the time in the world.

Where the hell was the place? He tried to remember if there was anything special about it. Any landmark. Only the ghost orchid which started the whole thing and the stick with the red bow which would have been removed days ago. So there was nothing ...

God - he’d seen those scabby parasols on that tree trunk before. He’d been running around in bloody circles. He stopped, vaguely aware that Troy had crashed to a halt beside him. Only now was he aware that every beat of his heart was causing the most intense pain. That his jacket was black with sweat and snagged, like the skin on his face, with brambles. That he was opening his mouth wide and sucking in air like a drowning man. He stood very still, willing himself to think calmly.

And it was then he saw the hellebores. And knew why the scabby parasols looked familiar. A few feet away were the tightly latticed branches which made a screen that curved. He walked alongside the partition, his footsteps silent in the thick leaf mould, until he came to the end.

He was facing a hollow. Quite a large piece of the ground was flattened; bluebells and bracken folded backwards and crushed. Katherine Lacey lay in her lover’s arms. They rested heart to heart for comfort, like children lost in the wild wood. A single glass lay inches from his lifeless hand. She wore her bridal gown, stiff folds of ivory satin and a veil held in place by a circle of wild flowers. The veil, thickly embroidered and encrusted with seed pearls and diamante, streamed away from her body and seeped, a spangled luminous pool, into the surrounding dark. Her remarkable beauty was undimmed even in death. As Barnaby, bereft of speech, stood silently by, a large leaf drifted down and settled on her face, glowing richly against the waxen skin and covering her sightless eyes.

Chapter Three

‘It was very good of you to come and see me, Chief Inspector.’

Barnaby sat back in the tapestry wing chair, a large slice of plum cake and a double Teachers at his elbow. ‘Not at all, Miss Bellringer. If it weren’t for you - as you remarked, I remember, quite early on in the proceedings - I would not have had a case at all.’

‘I always suspected the Lacey girl, you know.’

‘Yes,’ Barnaby nodded, ‘one is inclined to reject the very obvious solution. But it is so often the correct one.’

‘And of course once you realized she wasn’t working alone ...’

‘Exactly. It then became clear how all three murders could have been committed.’

‘I feel so distressed about Phyllis Cadell. A terrible business. But I still don’t quite understand all the ramifications. Why on earth would she confess to something she hadn’t done?’

‘It is quite complicated.’ Barnaby took a sip of his Teachers. ‘And I’ll have to go back a few years to start explaining. Back to the Laceys’ childhood in fact. Do you remember Mrs Sharpe?’

‘The nanny? Yes, I do. Poor woman. They led her quite a dance, I believe.’

‘So Mrs Rainbird told me. Apparently the children were as thick as thieves when they were little, always plotting, planning, fiercely protective, always covering up for each other, then when they were older everything changed. Nothing but rows which got to such a pitch that, as soon as they were old enough to cope alone, old Nanny Sharpe left for a bit of peace and quiet by the seaside. I accepted this story at face value simply because I had no reason to doubt it. And the behaviour of the Laceys certainly bore it out. I overheard an extremely bitter quarrel between them myself. But my conversation with Mrs Sharpe gave me an entirely different picture.’

He took a bite of the excellent plum cake, stiff and black with fruit, and a swig of Teachers. In his mind he sat again on the unyielding Rexine sofa overlooked by a constellation of smiling Laceys. Mrs Lacey as a child and young woman, wedding photographs, christenings. The children growing up, so alike and watchful; always close.

‘She was the strong one,’ said Mrs Sharpe. ‘Took after her father.’

‘Not an easy man, I understand?’

‘He was wicked!’ Mrs Sharpe’s thin face flushed. ‘I don’t go in for all this modern understanding-what-makes-people-tick rubbish. There are some people just born wicked and he was one of them. He broke my poor girl’s heart and drove her to her death. She was a lovely creature too ... so gentle. And other women ... he was supposed to have met this smart piece he went abroad with after Madelaine died. Well I’ve never believed that and I never will. He was carrying on with her all along, to my way of thinking.’

‘The boy was more like his mother, then?’

‘He worshipped her. I felt so sorry for him. He tried to be brave ... to protect her, but he was no match for his father. Gerald was a very violent man ... once he threw an iron at Madelaine and Michael jumped in between them and got it full in the face. That’s how he got that mark, you know.’

Barnaby shook his head. ‘I didn’t know.’

‘But Katherine was all for her father. And he went off and left her without a backward glance. It would have damaged a weaker person for good and all but she ... well ... she was a chip off the old block all right. She didn’t seem much like him on the surface. He was flamboyant, always showing off ... she’d draw into herself more, but in their hearts they were a dead spit. Fiery tempers and a cast-iron will. And when he’d gone she turned all her attention to Michael. And he, poor boy, with his mother dead, clung to her in desperation. You’d never have thought he was the elder. She was mother, father, sister, everything to him. Sometimes I wondered what I was doing there at all except there had to be somebody while they were still under age.

‘Michael started painting when he was about fourteen. Seriously, I mean. He’d always been good at art at school and they kept on at him to go to college. He went for a bit then walked out. Said they were a load of rubbish. And Katherine encouraged him. Told him he’d be better off travelling round Europe, going to galleries, museums and suchlike. That’s what painters always did, she said. Anyway, that’s how things stood till just before Katherine was seventeen. Michael’d had his eighteenth birthday a couple of months before and that’s when the rows started. Adolescent rows as I saw it. Picking fault with each other all the time, every day a slanging match. She’d scream at him, he’d fling himself out of the house. And yet, Inspector’ - she leaned forward and her voice became very quiet - ‘all the time this was going on I felt there was something wrong. I could sense the undercurrent of their feelings for each other as strong as ever. The rows seemed ... forced somehow ... unnatural.

‘Then, one night, I couldn’t sleep. I tossed and turned for hours till at three o’clock I gave up and decided to go downstairs and make some tea. I was walking past Katherine’s door when I heard sounds ... little cries. I thought she was having a nightmare so I opened the door and ... looked in.’ Her face burned with the memory and she covered it with her hands. ‘I couldn’t stay after that. I gave the excuse to the Traces that the children - I still thought of them like that, you understand - were simply too much for me and I wanted to retire. My sister had died a few months before and left me this bungalow. My last couple of weeks at the cottage were as different again. No need to stage any more rows to put me off the scent. They didn’t bother to conceal how they felt. Didn’t even seem to think there was anything wrong. It was so natural for them, you see ... just an extension of their close feelings. They couldn’t understand why I had to leave. Why I wasn’t happy for them both. I did try once or twice considering the possibility of staying on ... they were still my babies in a way and I had promised their mother I’d look after them, but then one day Katherine started talking about their European tour. Oh they were going here ... they were going there ... I don’t know where they weren’t going. I asked then, “Who’s paying for all this?” And she said, “Henry, of course.” And Michael said, “Kate can get Henry to do anything.”

‘They were standing together at the time behind the kitchen table, arms around each other’s waists. And I suddenly realized how strong they were ... They fed off each other. You could almost see it ... energy flowing to and fro between them ... doubling ... doubling in strength. And I felt afraid. I thought, there’ll be no stopping them. Whatever they want ...

‘Someone sent me the paper with the inquest on Mrs Trace. It seemed an accident clear enough. But then there was the engagement and when I heard Miss Simpson had died I couldn’t help wondering ... Perhaps if I’d got in touch with the police the third death might not have happened. But I didn’t know, you see ... it was just a feeling. And how could I have betrayed them? I loved them, you see ... Madelaine’s children.’

There was a long pause. Miss Bellringer nodded gravely. ‘I begin to understand.’ She poured herself a little more whisky and continued, ‘But I still don’t see how Bella could have been killed by either of them.’

‘Neither did I at first. I read the report until I knew it by heart. And it tallied so perfectly with Phyllis Cadell’s confession that there seemed to be little reason to look further. And yet there was something about it that didn’t quite fit and it nagged at me for days before I realized what it was. Now, I’m not a sporting man but it seems to me that the place for a beater is ahead of the guns. So why were Michael Lacey and Mrs Trace together? Come to that what was he doing out there in the first place? He told me some story about earning money but this couldn’t have been further from the truth. He was there to peel Mrs Trace off from the rest of the party. To isolate her so that she became a very clear target indeed; a sitting duck, in other words. Katherine was in the undergrowth - don’t forget we only have her brother’s word for it that she was in the kitchen at Tye House - and at a prearranged time, no doubt with a certain amount of leeway on either side, the murder was committed.’

‘Just like that?’

‘Both the Laceys were experienced shots. Mrs Rainbird told me so. And of course with all the kerfuffle with the dogs and everyone racing about she just slipped quietly away through the trees. And Michael, all eagerness to help, went racing off to phone for an ambulance. And now comes the second thing that struck me as odd. Surely, in an emergency, you dash up the nearest driveway and bang on the door, but Lacey went to Tye House. Almost as far as you could get from the spot where the accident occurred. Why did he not go to the first house in Church Lane? Or Holly Cottage, which would have been even nearer? There can only be one reason. Because he wished to delay the ambulance as long as possible. The last thing they wanted was an efficient team on the spot in no time, perhaps saving Bella’s life.’

‘Yes ... I can see that it could well have been that way ...’ So enthralling had Miss Bellringer found Barnaby’s recital that she had frozen into attention with a square of plum cake halfway between her plate and her mouth. She now popped the cake in and continued, whilst munching, ‘But then ... why Phyllis?’

‘Well, not surprisingly, considering the terrible emotional pressure she was under, her lack of practice with a gun coupled with the vodka she’d consumed, Miss Cadell missed. By half a mile I shouldn’t wonder. But by one of those dreadful coincidences that sometimes happen and change our lives by doing so, Bella stumbled over a tree root as Phyllis fired. Lessiter mentioned at the inquest that Mrs Trace had already fallen once. There can be no other explanation.’

‘But ... if Dennis saw what happened he must have seen Bella get up again. After Phyllis ran away, I mean.’

‘I should imagine so. That’s something we shall find out when he’s fit to be questioned. But I wouldn’t put it past either of them to bleed someone white, knowing them to be innocent.’

‘How absolutely appalling.’ Miss Bellringer looked anxiously around her exuberant room as if testing it for pregnability. She bent down and picked up Wellington, holding him to her flat chest like a charm. Four resentful feet stuck stiffly out. ‘And Bella’s murder ... was this the first step in some grand design?’

‘Certainly. They left a letter. Everything clearly explained.’ Bold black writing boiling with anger. The only word of sorrow or regret in the whole seven pages was that they had not been able to deny themselves a brief visit to their secret place that fatal Friday afternoon. No point in wounding his elderly companion by repeating the names they called her innocent friend. ‘I believe it was you, Miss Bellringer, who used the term “bad blood”. I remember thinking at the time how melodramatic it sounded. As if wickedness could be passed on genetically, like blue eyes or red hair. But now ... I’m not so sure. It’s all so reminiscent of the father’s behaviour. Using people with absolute callousness and then walking away from the pain and unhappiness to the next mark.’

‘Mark?’

‘Sorry ... victim. They needed money, you see. Lots and lots and lots of money. It wasn’t enough to live quietly until Michael succeeded with his painting, which I have absolutely no doubt eventually he would have done. He was remarkably gifted. No, they had to travel. The Grand Tour. Venice, Florence, Amsterdam, Rome. For as long as Michael needed to soak up the artistic atmosphere. Then they planned to settle abroad, probably living as man and wife.’

‘And Henry?’

‘Ah ... poor Henry. I’m afraid his demise would not have been long delayed. It’s my belief that he had already imbibed a certain amount of the substance that killed your friend. It surely cannot be a coincidence that on the evening of her death he fell conveniently into a doze after dinner. And it wasn’t just on that occasion either. What Henry actually said to me was, “I must have dropped off after dinner. I often do these days.”’

‘I can see why it would have been necessary for her to get out of the house, Chief Inspector. But I still don’t understand about the dog.’

‘It’s quite simple. She walked to the post box with her letter to Notcutts, posted it, carried on to the bottom of the lane, met Michael on the path by Holly Cottage and handed the dog over to him. He took it home with him and Katherine called on your friend, with what result we already know.’

‘She must’ve stayed quite a while to ... to make sure ...’ Her face crumpled with distress. ‘I’m sorry ... all these details ... it makes it so real ...’

‘Are you sure you want me to continue?’

‘Quite sure. But perhaps a little fortification ...’ She put Wellington down and unscrewed the Teachers, pouring a little into her glass. ‘And two ... um ... fingers isn’t it ... for yourself?’

‘Thank you, no. To return to Beehive Cottage. Katherine needed to stay only until Miss Simpson had drunk the poisoned wine. Then she walked back to Holly Cottage and collected the dog, and Michael took over. No doubt there was the pretence that they both needed to speak to her. What they said we shall never know. Pleas for silence, for understanding. Perhaps even a feigned suggestion that the relationship would come to an end. They were both wonderful actors.’ His voice hardened as he remembered Katherine’s tearful display over Benjy’s slow demise.

‘How she would have hated that conversation. Emily, I mean. She was so fastidious. So it was Michael who ... ?’

‘Yes. He stayed until she lost consciousness, then closed the sitting-room door so Benjy wouldn’t see his mistress and raise the alarm. He washed up Katherine’s glass but left Miss Simpson’s. Of course they both hoped that it would pass off as a natural death but in the unlikely event of an investigation a single glass with only her fingerprints and with a residue of poison would be found. Or rather would have been found ...’

Miss Bellringer blushed. ‘So the Shakespeare was just an added pointer? In case.’

‘Yes. There it was open. He was probably looking around whilst he was waiting. The speech must have caught his eye and seemed propitious. Out with the 6B pencil. Which one of them climbed through the larder window is something they don’t mention. What did become clear as I read the letter was that the Lessiter girl had a very lucky escape.’

‘Judy? I don’t understand.’

‘She went to the cottage whilst Katherine was with your friend. She actually saw Michael through the window. What she couldn’t have known was that he had a dog with him. If she’d knocked and the dog had barked ...’

‘Poor child. I’m afraid she was born for unhappiness. Some people are, you know.’

‘Yes.’ Barnaby nodded. ‘She was made use of by the Laceys as was anyone else who came into their orbit. It was important for instance that Michael spent the afternoon of the Rainbird murder with her. I remember my sergeant remarking at the time, “Lucky he had an alibi”. On the contrary - luck had nothing to do with it. It was a crucial part of the plan that he should have an alibi. The knife was planted at Holly Cottage not, as I first thought, to incriminate Lacey, but to direct suspicion away from the guilty party on to someone whom the murderer knew to be innocent. And who could be proved to be innocent.

‘Even if Judy hadn’t contacted Michael Lacey he would have been in touch with her, as his first words “I was just going to ring you” imply. And of course he had to work at the Lessiters’ so that the cottage would be empty for the knife to be planted. Then, according again to the letter, there was to be an anonymous tip-off suggesting we search the cottage. But Mrs Quine beat them to it.’

‘What a chance to take. Walking round in her brother’s clothes in broad daylight.’

‘Well, of course she came straight from the cottage through the wood and into the spinney. I’ve no doubt that if she’d met someone face to face the whole plan would have been abandoned but, seen from a distance, hair piled up under her cap, she would simply be mistaken for Michael.’

‘Who had an unbreakable alibi?’

‘Precisely. There was a fair amount of risk involved but Mrs Rainbird had only given them till the wedding to come up with the first payment.’

‘Before she blew the gaff?’

Barnaby smiled. He was going to miss Lucy Bellringer. ‘More or less.’

‘But surely Dennis wouldn’t have kept quiet? Especially after what happened to his mother. What were they going to do about him?’

‘Michael was to dispose of Dennis. In fact his life was saved only because he came home half an hour earlier than usual. We met Lacey in the spinney behind the bungalow. He pretended he was on his way to the pub but we now know that his real intention was to make sure the Rainbird boy did not survive his mother.’

‘They must have been frantic.’

‘Yes indeed. If they hadn’t been they would have realized that if Katherine was spotted, even from a distance, it would give the game away. Who else amongst our small ring of suspects was of a build and height to be mistaken for Michael Lacey?’

‘But surely she took care to have an alibi?’

‘Of a sort. She said she’d been picking mushrooms. There was a basket of them on the kitchen table with some in. And they were fresh. I sniffed them. Certainly she would not have had time to pick them, commit the murder, shower, change clothes and so on. But if they had been gathered earlier that day by Michael and left at Holly Cottage ready ...’

‘Ahhhh.’ Miss Bellringer nodded. ‘That must be the explanation.’

‘After cleaning herself up’ (in a flash of memory Barnaby saw the girl, dazzlingly, ironically pure in her snow-white dress) ‘she slipped out of the bungalow, no doubt checking the road carefully first, by the front door and then knocked, quite loudly, to draw attention to herself. Mrs Sweeney, hearing the knock and seeing her put the mushrooms on the step and walk away, naturally assumed, as anyone would, that she had also walked up the path.’

‘But the clothes ... the cap and everything. And you said something about a rug. Do you know what happened to that?’

‘Oh yes ... the rug was rolled up by the back garden hedge. Michael collected it after he left the Lessiters’ and returned it to the pond. The clothes were simply taken away in the mushroom basket. It was a very large basket and, when I saw it in the kitchen, barely half full, so there was plenty of room to spare. She then walked down to Holly Cottage, hid the murder weapon, rather too successfully as things turned out, dumped the bloodstained clothing temporarily in the woods, and returned to Tye House.’

‘What does that mean? Your remark about the murder weapon?’

‘Well, we had a warrant to search the house. Now, if she had planted the knife in the kitchen drawer or in his bedroom we might not have entered the studio, a room that proved to be crucial, until later.’

‘Surely they thought you would search everywhere, Chief Inspector? As a matter of course?’

‘Normally yes, but Lacey made a bolt for it simply, as I realized later, to get us out of the house. And I’d had a quick look around the studio. It seemed perfectly in order. But as we drove away from the village Katherine saw the car. When her brother made a square around his face and shouted “I’ve been framed” I took this as a mere gesture of bravado. In fact it was a message that couldn’t have been clearer. What does a frame enclose but a painting? And why, when the cottage held so much that was valuable to him, namely all his work to date, did he leave the door open? Why did he pretend it was never locked? Because something in the studio had to be removed and if this was done when the place was locked up the culprit, as the only other person to have a key, would have to be Katherine. Unlocked, it could have been anyone.’

‘Yes ... I can see that. But what had to be removed? Was it a picture? Why was it so important?’

Barnaby drained his Teachers and sat back in his chair, wondering how best to word his reply. He saw the painting again, heard Troy cry - ‘But who is it?’ Felt once more the almost physical blow to his solar plexus that had struck as he gazed at the easel. He understood fully Troy’s bewilderment. For Katherine Lacey was practically unrecognizable. It was the most erotic nude he had ever seen. She was sprawled on the double bed and although there was something post-coital about the positioning of her limbs there was nothing relaxed or reflective in the work. It was riven with power. Her skin was pearly with sweat; her legs and arms throbbed with energy, seeming almost to move on the canvas. There was something rapacious about them. And something faintly sinister. Barnaby was reminded of a praying mantis, alluring and deadly. She looked bigger in every way than the woman he had known. Her neck was thick and powerful, her breasts large, her belly richly curved.

But it was the face that had brought forth Troy’s cry of disbelief. It was the face of a maenad. Wet red lips were drawn back into a fierce smile: greedy, lustful and cruel. Her eyes glittered with an unholy satisfaction. Only her hair was recognizable and even that seemed to have a life of its own, twisting and turning like a nest of snakes. Barnaby felt that any minute she would spring out of the canvas and devour him.

Miss Bellringer repeated her question. Barnaby, aware that his reminiscences had left his face heavily flushed, replied, ‘It was a portrait of his sister which left little doubt as to the truth of their relationship.’ No wonder, he thought, the little single bed always looked so pristine and newly made. She probably hadn’t slept in it since Mrs Sharpe left. And now he knew why Katherine hadn’t moved into the vacant bedroom which was so much larger than her own.

‘How clever they have been. And to what a terrible end.’

‘Yes. Oddly enough my sergeant said something quite early on in the case which could have been a pointer if only I’d had the wit to see it. He noticed Mrs Lessiter never missed an opportunity to have a dig at Lacey and said, “It wouldn’t be the first time a married woman’s pretended to dislike her lover in public to put people off the scent.”’

‘They were certainly convincing.’

‘Mm. There was one episode that I had great difficulty with. Troy and I -’

‘I still don’t like that man.’

Barnaby smiled noncommittally and continued, ‘We were walking along the path to Holly Cottage and heard the Laceys in the midst of the most terrible row. Later, when I had decided they were guilty, I simply couldn’t fit this scene into my puzzle. Why continue to act out in private a charade that is purely for public consumption? It didn’t make sense. In fact I’m afraid overhearing them made me slower to reach my final conclusion than I would otherwise have been. And then, returning home from Saint Leonards, and noticing my sergeant’s constant attention to his driving mirror, I realized that the whole scene had been set up for my benefit. Because although we were behind a tall hedge and could not see them they would have had a very clear view of our approach in the mirror placed near the opening where the motorist turned round.’

There was a long pause, then Miss Bellringer said, ‘So ... that’s it then ... ? The final piece slips into place.’

Barnaby drained his glass and pressed the remaining delicious crumbs of cake into a neat ball. He thought it seemed much longer than two weeks since his companion had first sat in his office rootling in her capacious bag and fixing him with her glittering eye. What had she just said? The final piece? Yes, it must be. The vague feeling he had of one more loose end must simply be his natural inability to believe in life’s tidiness.

There was nothing more to say. He rose to his feet. Lucy got up too and held out her hand. ‘Well, goodbye, Chief Inspector. It’s been most stimulating working with you. How I shall settle down again to the normal dull routine I just don’t know.’

Barnaby shook hands and said, with absolute sincerity, ‘I can’t imagine anything being dull for long in your presence.’

As he walked towards the layby where he had parked the Orion he passed the churchyard, hesitated, then turned in. He made his way around the building through a gate in the box hedge to where the newest graves showed, rectangular strips of cold clay, in the lumpy greensward.

One was heaped with wreaths, the flowers still glowing and vibrant; on the other the tributes had been removed, leaving only a vase of dark red, sweetly scented roses. A plain stone was already in place. It read:

EMILY SIMPSON

A Dear Friend

1906-1987

Barnaby stood in the shade of the dark yew trees and listened to the kaah-kaah of the rooks for a long moment, then turned and walked quickly away.

Dinner was almost finished. Cully had provided assorted dips with crudités. Chicken chasseur. Broccoli. New potatoes. Watercress. A wedge of double Gloucester and lemon chiffon pie. And there was a little box of florentines to nibble with their coffee. Barnaby’s stomach, torn between disbelief and excitement, muttered gently. Cully poured the last drops from the second bottle of Côtes de Gascogne and lifted her glass.

‘Merde in your eye, folks.’

‘I was going to drink to Beatrice,’ replied Barnaby. His daughter was in the last week of rehearsals for Much Ado, happy to stay in Cambridge, even in the long vacation, if it meant getting her teeth into a good part.

Sartorially she seemed to have quietened down a bit whilst still looking definitely pantomimic. She wore a man’s tailored three-piece suit in grey and white chalk stripes dating from the early fifties and her hair, the colour of sloe gin, was cut in an Eton crop. There was a monocle pinned to her lapel. She looked aggressive, sexy and, because of her youth, rather touching. Barnaby thought she was softening up a bit. He had not discussed the dénouement of the Simpson case with Joyce, waiting until Cully was home, saving it for their first long meal together. And she had listened courteously, intent and thoughtful to the very end. Joyce now returned briefly to the subject.

‘I always thought that ... um ... that sort of thing ... you know ... only went on in ... well ... poorer families.’

‘Oh Ma, don’t be so mealy mouthed. If you mean working class why on earth don’t you say so? In any case not true. There are lots of examples, fact and fiction, of upper-class siblings having it off.’ Cully nibbled a florentine. ‘Just like poor Annabella.’

‘What?’ said Barnaby, placing his cup in his saucer with extreme care.

‘Pardon, dear, not what.’

‘Annabella. You know ... in Tis Pity.’

‘No, I don’t know. Enlighten me.’

‘Honestly, Dad ... I worked my guts out on that thing ... it was the first big part I had ... Tis Pity She’s a Whore ... at the ADC. You came up to see it and now you don’t even remember.’

Yes, he remembered now. A dark stage lit with sudden flares of light from torches. Rich brocades and painted faces swirling out of the shadows. Terrible images of blood and death. His daughter in a white gown drenched with blood; daggers plunged again and again into living flesh; a heart held aloft at knife point. Horror upon horror, scenes prefiguring the death and destruction he had so recently beheld at Tranquillada. And, over and above all, the tragic pitiful incestuous passion of Annabella and her brother Giovanni. Barnaby saw again the little piecrust table in Beehive Cottage with the pile of books. The Adventurous Gardener, Shakespeare, A Golden Treasury. And the copy of Jacobean plays.

Cully spoke dreamily, her husky voice brimming with untold sadness, ‘One soul, one flesh, one love, one heart, one all ...’

Barnaby gazed at her with fatherly pride and admiration. He picked up his cup again. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘that’s about the size of it.’